


Flesh and Light

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Cannibalism, Drabble, M/M, Murder (mentioned), Violence (mentioned), idk the aesthetics of Neon Demon just begged for a hannigram AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9104461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: He stood among the other boys, like a pillar of light, like a glowing miracle.(A Neon Demon inspired modelling AU.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Плоть и Свет](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9264617) by [fragilelittleteacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup), [SweetTeaTime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetTeaTime/pseuds/SweetTeaTime)



He stood with his hands loosely hanging by his smooth, hairless thighs. The curves and smooth planes of his face appeared to have been shaped by the same hands that had lovingly created Greek sculptures, and the midnight-black curls of his hair sat against his white skin like ink. His blue eyes were bright and clear, like church windows. They held no imperfections, no shadows of a difficult life, and shone with an ageless lack of humanity. His eyelashes were long like a girl’s would be– yet Hannibal had never seen any girl that could have held a candle to this angel.

There was something eternal about him.

He stood among the other boys, like a pillar of light, like a glowing miracle. He did not pose. He did not strut. He just stood, looking. His existence was simply presented, in all its glory.

Everyone was staring at him. He was the sun, in the dead of winter. His hair was a sharp, black brushstroke in the fluorescent white room. His bare shoulders deserved wings, and his slender waist deserved reverent hands to touch him.

Hannibal had never used the word beautiful aloud, because he had never truly believed he would ever meet someone who would live up to the quintessence of _true_ beauty. But, in this moment, in this studio, Hannibal felt a revelation take a hold of him. The world bent around this boy’s shape, curved to fit his figure, wrapped itself around his body like it had been made for him– and him alone. Hannibal stared up at him, and imagined this was how the great masters had felt in the Renaissance, as they painted their muses, as they embraced them, as they poised them gently and held their bodies aloft with the deepest of devotion.

Those muses had been innocent. They had been sweet and pretty and harmless; bent to the touch of older men, yearning for freedom and for conviction they had never known.

But this boy. He was not harmless. He knew freedom, and took it as he pleased.

Hannibal held his stare, and tasted blood. This boy had killed before. Yet, somehow, he had remained clean and unblemished; no amount of violence or death had ever clung to his picturesque hands, or gotten stuck beneath his short nails. Hannibal was struck speechless by his lips, and the feminine blush of his round cheeks. He could imagine this boy surrounded by wildflowers, lying on his back, bare beneath the sunlight. Or perhaps in Hannibal’s lap, his back arched, eyes closed, his perfect mouth open and gasping. His body streaked with blood. Decorated with it. Like some kind of pagan boy-god; a knife in his hands, a blade against his skin, eyes looking upwards with seductive youthfulness as he bit into human flesh. He would have mountains of corpses, Hannibal was sure– if they could know one another, if he could touch this demon and see his ferocity exposed to the world.

“What is your name?”

The boy did not smile, in the desperate way that many of them did when they were addressed directly by the casting agents. He simply looked into Hannibal’s eyes, and did not blink.

“William,” he replied, his voice quiet, like a hum of birdsong, “William Graham.”

Hannibal smiled, then. Let his canines show. Let the boy see the blood in his eyes and the murder in his mind, as if he were painting the white room with red. The space between them was electrified, and he could feel music swell in his veins as that beautiful boy’s supple lips tilted with the smallest, most tender of smiles.

He saw the most exquisite violence in that shy expression.

“You,” Hannibal began slowly, “will come for a fitting tomorrow.”

They boy held his gaze, and Hannibal knew he had no power here. The other boys worshipped him, but this being answered to no one and nothing but his own desires.

“Alright,” young William responded, “I will.”

 

 

 


End file.
